Awkward hair phase.

  It took me probably over a year and a half, maybe even closer to two years, to get my hair to the length it is not, which is about shoulder/middle upper back-length now. Looking back, it doesn't seem that long and in fact, I've forgotten about so much of the time spent getting to this point; it's funny, in retrospect, just how many times I've threatened to cut it all off and go back to nothing. Well, very short and monk-like anyhow.

  It wasn't easy but it's worth it, if nothing else for the experience, because I'm pretty sure I'll probably lose a good bit of it at some later point in my life, thanks to genetics. It honestly constantly surprises me that my hair is capable of growing this long, so for me it's been an experience in all things yoga-like: patience... mostly patience, actually. And acceptance.
  I went through a lot of the aforementioned "awkward hair phases" during the process and looking back on them they make me laugh too, not just because of how they look but because those were not just awkward phases in my hair growth; they were awkward phases in my own growth. I'm not the same person I was then, if you know what I mean. If not, I simply mean that sticking to the experience teaches you a lot about yourself. To me, having long hair is more a sign of wisdom I've accrued in growing it, not at all for the sake of fashion or because I "look good with it".

  It's who I am right now. I have long hair. One day I will have short hair again, when it's time to. Or I won't.

  One just never knows what's in store..

in the beginning...

  “Buckin’ Muck Fulligan..”. He was obviously a little agitated, and confused. Ulysses was the recent topic of discussion and what do you expect working in a psych ward? You know, Joyce? Phineas Poe told him about it. Actually, there had been word of it from scholars and pretentious hipster types who liked challenging pieces of literature to read, which made them feel edgy. We all have something to prove, don’t we?

I guess I should take the time to explain who him is. Notice it’s not capitalized. Not that Him; him. Shane. Me. It happens that I sometimes talk about myself in the third person, not really sure as to why that is… it’s probably not life threatening but thanks for your concern.

So I’m writing a book, or in the process of writing one, and it’s just not as easy as it seems, let me tell you. It’s never really been becoming of me to make up stories with elaborate plots because really, I lack the imagination for that. The certain type required, that is. See, reality is kooky enough to make a really neat story out of; I’m living it every day, and so are you. You just may not be aware of it. You’re in it right now, in fact. It’s not witchcraft, it’s fictional reality. Thank Slayer for that one.

There are many forks in the road but they all eventually lead you back to yourself. 

---

So, that is an abandoned beginning of the book I haven't wrote yet, the title of which I am leaving out because it's fucking awesome and I don't want any of you motherfuckers stealing my shit. Bahahahaha just kidding... but seriously, it's a secret until it's finished. Let me know what you think! LEave me some feedback on FaceBalls, I mean Book, or something similar! I'm not writing it strictly for my sole purposes, after all..

-Shane

Hipster Fasciitis

"Standing stoic, eyes like bright statues against an emotional undercurrent; the intellect is what binds."

  Yeah, something like that. I'm standing in a grungy basement surrounded by people I refuse to associate myself with; a very definitive hipster dilemma, I would say. The band my friend and I are here to see is (the) Melvins, but I can't pull myself out of my head; it's a pretty normal thing for me, so I'm not worried.
  Looking around at all the arms folded across chests, these arms covered in tattoos, everyone wearing painted-on jeans and shockingly similar eye wear. There's a couple to my left who coordinated their outfits well, tonight: the ubiquitous skinny jeans on both sexes, tattoos, "hipster glasses" and identical Adidas footwear. I throw up in my mouth a little.

  I don't know, I guess I've always had some sort of issue with conformity in one way or another, and even when I did (conform), I could reason to myself and others logically exactly WHY (I thought) I stand/stood out. Most times, I only have my ridiculous theories tested and dissected, leaving me a bit like a sullen adolescent. It's hard to be original these days, and even when you are you run the risk of becoming a schtick; you cease to be human and instead exist as a living, breathing gimmick. You could wear a meat suit or light yourself on fire but then it just becomes shock and awe for its own sake, a pitiful cry for attention in a world where no one is listening.
 
  But they're talking. And soon, meat suits become all the rage.

  I will try all day long but ultimately cannot deny my interests and tastes are decidedly "hipster". This is my generation, so I guess I might as well stop fighting it and just laugh; at myself, and others. Quietly though, hipsters probably offend easily.

  So now what? Where do I go from here now that I see my fate? Ok, I guess I should get back to being  somewhat present at this show, since I did pay money and drive two hours to see..

  There's always those who have a good time, no matter what, no matter who is playing. And there is always the other 3/4 of the audience (whom I've described earlier) scrutinizing the band howling and gyrating onstage like they were some strange bug caught up in scientific documentation. It's like that for us hipsters; I do it plenty. It is, however, interesting to watch and I turn that scrutinizing eye not only on my fellow audience but myself, as well.
  No one moves. Magically, the Melvins come on and everyone's heads and necks become instantly unglued, teetering and bobbing back and forth to the first four seconds of the opening drum kicks. It's amazing stuff, and if you've never noticed it, well, then just keep reading my stuff I guess.

  The 30-year vets of eclecticism lurch through a set that I have no idea of the exact length; I'm drunk and busy watching hipsters but losing myself in the double-drummer attack all the same. I never see the band once, except for the occasional glimpse of the frontmen through armpits and under chins.

  It's ok. Really. Sometimes its better to just close your eyes and be a hipster like no one's watching.